The Pains of Fräulein Elisabeth
“I came to [Freud’s] clinic, to point at the insufficiencies of his new discipline, and to prove him wrong.”
In the fall of 1892, my doctor referred me to Dr. Sigmund Freud for an examination. I had been suffering for more than two years from pains in my foot and had difficulties in walking. My doctor thought my case was one of hysteria, though there was no trace of the usual indications of that neurosis. Over the past few years, my life was met with many misfortunes and not much happiness. First my father had died, then my mother had had to undergo a serious eye-operation and soon afterwards my married sister fell ill. In all these troubles, the largest share of the nursing had fallen to me. And my right foot grew weak to the crushing weight of the burden.
Freud, in his double-breasted vest with a pocket watch neatly tucked in, was an imposing figure, his piercing gaze seeming to delve deep into my subconscious.
I was actually quite familiar with the works of Freud. He had discovered a new field of science. Psychoanalysis, he called it. He attempted to lay bare the house of the human mind, and insisted that every instance of neurosis can be traced back to a sexual trauma. This insistance frustrated me intellectually, and I hoped that my case would disprove his dogmatic view, and point at there being more to the human psyche than sex. I came to his clinic, to point at the insufficiencies of his new discipline, and to prove him wrong.
"Please, Elisabeth," he requested in a soft, persuasive voice, "remove your dress shoe and stockings." The request was clinical, almost impersonal, yet the act of baring my aching foot felt intensely intimate. He knelt down and began massaging and manipulating my foot, his rhythmic voice weaving a hypnotic chant, it was as though he was drawing closer to my soul, step by step.
I knew that Freud did not find it easy to arrive at a diagnosis. He always treated me with a sense of doubt, and never spoke with me with that tone of assertiveness he was rumored to possess. Perhaps because I carried myself disagreebly towards him. I was critical of his method, and thus, insusceptible to his hypnosis.
He spoke with me as if he were treading lightly on unsteady grounds. I saw through every step in his method, and wondered if he was truly fit for the job, and if the shoe really fit him. He would embark on a theory, and once he felt that he misstepped, he withdrew himself, walked around the subject, then recoursed to a new way of analysis. Our therapy grew stale, and felt to have come to a standstill.
Suddenly, in the middle of the foot-massage, his voice cut through the silence. He squinted his eyes and fixed a narrow gaze upon me.
FREUD: Youngest of three daughters, you were tenderly attached to your parents. However, due to your mother’s illness, you found yourself attached to your father. In your early childhood, you were especially fond of his habit of reading you fairy tales. Do I recall correctly?
ELISABETH: Yes, and growing up, he used to say that I took the place of a son and a friend with whom he could exchange thoughts.
FREUD: Yes, and he remarked that, because of that, you grew up with a masculine disposition, with a mental constitution that departed from the ideal which people sought for in a girl. You grew up to become cheeky, and cock-sure, and arrogant in your intellect.
Hm, tell me about the day you discovered his illness.
ELISABETH: Oh. Well, it came as a blow. My father was brought home unconscious one day suffering from a pulmonary oedema. He was nursed for eighteen months, and I saw to it that I played the leading part at his sick-bed. I slept in his room, was ready to wake if he called me at night, looked after him during the day and forced myself to appear cheerful, while he reconciled himself to his hopeless state with uncomplaining resignation. We spent most of our time in prayer, and I would frequently read him the holy scriptures.
FREUD: Ah, you never grew out of your affinity for fairy tales then.
ELISABETH: Please, this is no time for jokes.
FREUD: Hm…
ELISABETH: I became the angel in the house, assuming the role of the dutiful daughter. Perhaps, I was preparing to realize my childhood dream of becoming a nun, and joining the monestary. I kept this dream as a secret to myself, though.
Now, before my father died, he remarked, however, that my firm conscientiousness and my ability for intellectualisation were admirable attributes. And yet, he warned me against being too positive in my judgements and against my habit of regardlessly telling people the truth, and he often said I would find it hard to get a husband.
FREUD: Ah, I see.. then you are a virgin?
ELISABETH: Yes, but I do not see how that is relevant to our case, Dr. Freud.
FREUD: Hmm… - And your father’s demise left a hole in the social and financial life of your family of three women. But alas, that hole was soon to be filled by your sister’s husband; your brother in law.
FREUD: But this new happiness, however, took a sudden turn a few years later when your sister was discovered to have inherited your father’s pulmonary oedema and died from the illness.
ELISABETH: Yes. But the misfortunes actually began prior to that event. Namely when my sister moved in with her husband, and left me in solitary seclusion to nurse my mother with her eye-illness,
FREUD: Fräulein Elisabeth, if you do not mind, let us retrace our steps and explore the significance of your sister’s marriage.
ELISABETH: She had found her prince. She got her fairy-tale ending.
FREUD: I want you to recount a memory you shared with your brother-in-law. The first one that comes to mind. Particularly one before your sister’s death.
I paused, my gaze faraway. Then proceeded reluctantly.
ELISABETH: Well, one sunny day, he decided to accompany me on an early morning walk up a small verdant hill. He had initially planned to stay back with his ailing wife, my sister, that is, before she died, but chose to join me instead. We discussed my nursing duties and their impact on me. I remember being anxious about my ashen face, but luckily, the heat brought a blush to my cheeks.
My anxiety took a turn for the worst, however, when, lost in conversation, I accidentally stepped into a puttel... no- sorry, I mean, a “puddle”. Yes, puddle. And we laughed, he and I, though I was incredibly embarrassed, and blushed all the more.
FREUD: Ah, I see.
He stopped massaging my feet, his hands still resting on them.
FREUD: Fräulein Elisabeth, I am confidant we have arrived at a breakthrough. You see, the pains you've been experiencing are not merely physical, but manifestations of repressed emotions. Your case is that of conversion hysteria. A variant of symbolization.
ELISABETH: Repressed emotions?, I stammered, a knot of apprehension forming in my stomach.
What repressed emotions?
FREUD: Your repressed love for your brother-in-law.
ELISABETH: what?!
FREUD: Yes, it would be a very natural displacement of your electra complex for your father, your incestual attraction, that is. After he died, your brother in law took his stead. So naturally, you grew tenderly attached to him in stead. Transference.
His declaration left me breathless.
ELISABETH: "No, that's not possible!" I retorted, a tremor in my voice belying my outward denial. "I don't harbor such feelings. You're imposing sentiments that are foreign to me."
Freud leaned back, his gaze softening slightly.
FREUD: Pay attention, Fräulein Elisabeth. Do you mean to tell me that you did not apprehend the significance of your parapraxis. You misspoke; “puttel” in stead of “puddle”. After remarking that you were anxious about your ashen face. “Ashen”, “puttel”. Surely you are aware of the Brothers’ Grimm Fairy tale of Ashen-puttel? Cinderella, that is.
Memories came crashing in like a violent storm. My sister's wedding day. She had wrestled with her wedding shoes, and I was there, soothing her aching foot. Suddenly, my own foot had mirrored her pain. A chilling echo of Cinderella's tale, a grim fairytale woven into the fabric of my reality. Except, I wasn't Cinderella, I was the wicked step-sister, whose foot would not fit into Cinderella’s glass slipper without pain.
But then, everything changed. My sister didn't make it to her wedding. She died suddenly, leaving a gaping hole in our lives. I remembered looking at her lifeless body, my eyes overflowing with tears. A dark thought crossed my mind then, "My sister, she is dead. And he, my brother-in-law, is free, to be my husband." It was a thought so shocking and repugnant, yet it existed, buried deep within my subconscious.
ELISABETH: But I'm a Catholic. Virtuous, selfless. Not a Mary Magdalene"
I withdrew my feet from Freud’s hands and sat up straight.
FREUD: The battle, Elisabeth, lies between your conscious ideals - your superego, and your subconscious desires - your id. This inner dissonance disrupts your ego's equilibrium, manifesting as physical pain. Conversion hysteria, that is.
His words struck like a thunderbolt. The pain in my foot was a tangible sign of my hidden emotional turmoil, a heart-rending reminder of a love that dared not surface.
ELISABETH: You are wrong, Sigmund! I retorted. My doctor was mistaken to refer me to you!
The revelation was overwhelming. I abruptly stood and rushed towards the door.
FREUD: Your sister inherited your father’s pulmonary oedema. You appear to have inherited your mother’s blindness. Can’t you see, Fräulein Elisabeth? Can’t you see?!
In my haste, my foot caught on the threshold. I stumbled, a sharp pain searing through my achille’s tendon, my dress tearing in the fall. Lying on the cold floor, a broken woman in a torn dress, I wept. I wept for my lost sister, for my debauchery, for my forbidden desires. I wept for my ailing mother, and my deceased father. I wept for the love causing me so much pain. And so, I wept. Each tear was a ticking clock, marking the end of my magic hour. The end of my illusion.
Freud did not feel sympathy for me.
He looked upon me with a sly grin. As if to gloat that he was right.
Essays
Ideas
The Freudian agencies of human personality: Super-ego, ego, id
